


Snippets of Yesterday

by monokkrome



Series: A Collection of Stardust [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Companion Piece, F/M, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 13:37:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10105736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monokkrome/pseuds/monokkrome
Summary: Hanamaki can’t tear his eyes away from the boy in front of him, the silver stars in his eyes aglow and all, he can’t look away.Not when there’s a world stopping soft smile on Matsukawa’s face. Not whenhisstars are all aglow andmatch Hanamaki’s. Not when his best friend takes in a single shuddering breath and says the thing Hanamaki thought he’d never hear, because forever could be so much crueler in its apathy than it is being tonight.Not when, in this moment, forever is kinder than Hanamaki has ever known it to be.“And this is three years late, but Hanamaki Takahiro—I love you."





	

**Author's Note:**

> So here is a pre-quel companion oneshot to The Story of Forever, in the 'A Collection of Stardust' series.  
> And it is better to read TSoF beforehand, because the soulmate AU is actually explained in TSoF, but only alluded to in SoY.

It happens without warning, the destruction of the world that they had so carefully crafted year after year. It happens, and they are left breathless, speechless, with laughter dying on their tongues.

It’s so strange, how the shattering of reality changes so much without changing anything at all.

At least, that’s what Hanamaki thinks as he stares at Matsukawa, who in the three years he’s known him, hasn’t seemed to change since that very first day of volleyball practice.

Until now, because something _has_ changed about Matsukawa Issei.

It’s how breathtakingly beautiful his eyes ( _how breathtakingly beautiful **all** of Matsukawa_ ) look in this moment, with stars lighting up the galaxies that had been hidden beneath hooded lids.

The dim, flickering things up in the sky don’t even compare.

Especially not when Matsukawa’s looking at Hanamaki like _that_.

Like the twilight haired boy is everything that Matsukawa’s ever wanted and everything that he never knew he needed.

It’s enough to send Hanamaki’s heart racing, thunderously loud in the quiet darkness.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Unsurprisingly, it’s not Hanamaki who breaks the silence, who jumps across the gaping chasm of shattered yesterday’s and broken just-a-second-ago’s and beautiful, axis-tilting-now’s.

“Wow.”

It’s just a simple word. It’s just a stupid simple word. Nothing special, nothing that should make his blood sing, or his heart break, or his bones vibrate with the echoes of its sound.

It’s just a simple word.

But that one word sends chills down his back, skin rising as _need_ and _want_ and quiet gasps of _oh’s_ and soft admissions of _yeah’s_ and _anticipation_ bloom across its surface.

And Hanamaki can’t help the smile that seats itself upon his lips nor the pinpricks of moisture that collect in the corners of his eyes.

All of it is almost too much.

“Hey Makki?” Matsukawa asks, his voice trembling and filled with universes of awe.

It’s hard to get any words out, choked by the beginning of tears, but Hanamaki makes it happen, forcing the sounds to spill off his tongue.

( _No_ , he will say later when asked, _he was definitely **not** crying_.)

“Yeah Matsun?”

There is a single offbeat pause. A moment of acknowledgement. A less than a second in which the both of them know bone deep that nothing will ever be the same again.

Then that less-than-a-second is gone.

“You’re beautiful Makki. Fucking beautiful, and—.”

Hanamaki can’t tear his eyes away from the boy in front of him, the silver stars in his eyes aglow and all, he can’t look away.

Not when there’s a world stopping soft smile on Matsukawa’s face. Not when _his_ stars are all aglow and _match Hanamaki’s_. Not when his best friend takes in a single shuddering breath and says the thing Hanamaki thought he’d never hear, because forever could be so much crueler in its apathy than it is being tonight.

Not when, in this moment, forever is kinder than Hanamaki has ever known it to be.

“And this is three years late, but Hanamaki Takahiro—I love you.”

* * *

Matsukawa Issei doesn’t even register on his radar that first afternoon of volleyball practice, at least, not in the beginning of it.

Not like it’s surprising though, because all everyone can focus on is the crazy duo of first-years that shoot across the court like falling stars, leaving everyone else in the resulting stardust. It irritates him, at first, when he can’t take his eyes off the two, can’t take his eyes off the way that they’re two halves of the same whole.

Oikawa Tooru is the famous setter from Kitagawa Daiichi, whose serves are near perfection on the court when the Coach asks him to demonstrate in front of all the newcomers. There is power in them, a sureness, a demand for attention, a certain regality to them that no one else can match.

And in that moment the boy is something else.

He is a god, the king of the stars, seated upon his far away throne.

It is only fitting then, that Iwaizumi Hajime is the one who rips the king from his throne.

That Iwaizumi is he who made gods fall.

There is thunder in the gym the second that his open palm slams against the worn synthetic leather, and it is like watching lightning strike the earth when the ball hits the ground, too quick for even the regulars to save. In that moment, it is made clear that Iwaizumi Hajime is a monster. Brute force given form and crude elegance and a certain _knowing_ , an instinct, on the court.

Together, the two are perfection.

It makes Hanamaki burn on the inside, _need_ flaring up in the pits of his stomach, tearing through his veins as he devours the flawless way that Oikawa and Iwaizumi work together in order to completely destroy the second and third year regulars in their two-v-two practice matches.

And as the universe would have it, _this_ is the very moment that Matsukawa Issei crashed into Hanamaki Takahiro’s life that warm, spring afternoon.

“You’d think the two of them were aliens or some shit.”

The sound makes Hanamaki’s eyes widen, gaze flickering to the side where he can look at the person sitting next to him out of the corner of his vision.

_Fuck me_.

And as the universe would have it, _this_ is the very moment that Hanamaki Takahiro first falls in love with Matsukawa Issei that warm, spring afternoon.

Sharpening angles cut out the features of the other’s face, dark hair that just barely dusts against his forehead make his dark eyes even more prominent against the tan of the boy’s skin. And that half-smile, _that half-smile and those sleepy bedroom eyes and those goddamn eyebrows_.

Hanamaki swallows hard, turning to face the other, smirk already clicking in place.

“Aliens? Oikawa maybe, but did you see those biceps on Iwaizumi? Bet you a hundred yen that he’s a monster. Like, the guy could probably take down Godzilla.”

When the mystery boy ( _with the stupid perfect half-smile_ ) looks back at him he tries to ignore the flush of warmth that threatens to overtake the burn of _need_ inside his chest.

_Fuck me_.

“Pretty lucky that they’re on our team huh? Wouldn’t want to go against an alien or the guy who KOs Godzilla after all.”

The twilight boy opens his mouth, ready to reply, snark and subtle spitfire burning on his tongue, but then the sounds die out, smothered by the shadow at looms over the two boys.

When they look up, the king of the stars fills their vision.

“My, would’ve never have thought that we’d have a bunch of conspiracy theorists on the team. Me? Being an alien? _Please_ , everyone knows that alien life forms, however primitive, can only be found on other planets, which is what things like America’s most recent rover sent to Mars—.”

They blink and suddenly Oikawa Tooru is clutching his head, eyes watering as shouts at the newest arrival.

“Iwa-chan, that _hurt_!”

He who made gods falls is suddenly there as well, mouth set in an annoyed scowl as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Shittykawa, what the hell are you telling our new teammates? Without even introducing yourself to them? Don’t you have any manners?”

_It’s unfair_ , Hanamaki thinks, _that Oikawa Tooru is even beautiful when he pouts_.

“Jeez, Iwa-chan, they _already know_ who we are. They were literally whispering so loud about us that I could hear them on the court, and _excuse you_ , no manners? Who just hit me over the head?”

The snort that erupts from Iwaizumi Hajime is surprisingly _not_ a surprise, but what is a surprise, is how the dark-haired boy turns to Hanamaki and the other boy sitting next to him.

“Name’s Iwaizumi Hajime,” he jerks his head towards the setter, “that’s Oikawa Tooru. We’re both first years in Class 1-A.”

He dips his twilight-haired head, “Hanamaki Takahiro. First year in Class 1-B, right next door.”

His eyes slide to look at the hooded-eyed boy beside him, pulse quickening ever so slightly as he waits for the other’s response.

_Don’t_ , he scolds himself, _don’t do this to yourself. The chances his stars match yours are dismally small_.

But that doesn’t stop his traitorous heart from skipping a beat when the other finally does say his name.

“Matsukawa Issei, I’m a first year in Class 1-B too, but unlike this guy,” _Matsukawa Issei_ , not ‘the boy’, motions to him, “I don’t zone out in the middle of class introductions, so I actually know who’s my classmate.”

_Attractive, good at banter, **and** funny, _ Hanamaki thinks, heart pounding beneath the calm façade of his lazy smirk.

_You’re fucked, Takahiro._

_You’re **fucked**._

Iwaizumi nods, eyes even and unwavering, “Nice to meet the both of you.”

A quick glance at the setter to his right says everything that words don’t need to, then the spiker jerks his head back, hand tapping against the naked skin of his wrist.

The chocolate haired boy hums back, turning his head towards the other to nod once before his attention returns to Hanamaki and Matsukawa.

Oikawa’s smile widens, eyes sparkling as he stares at the two of them. “ _Well_ , I’m sorry to say that we’ve got to go, I _know_ that the two of you are just _so_ enamored with me right now, but Iwa-chan and I have some errands to run. We’ll look forward to seeing you next practice.”

His gaze slides to Matsukawa first. “Matsun.”

Then to Hanamaki. “Makki.”

And with that, Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime are gone.

For a few moments, the two of them are left stunned.

( _A force of nature_ , is the only thing comes to Hanamaki’s mind.)

Matsukawa’s eyes seem to glitter with amusement, his irises becoming galaxies as laughter glows bright as stars in their dark depths.

“Makki, huh?”

The twilight haired boy snorts, a wry smile spreading across his face, “Well, well _Matsun_ , I think this is the start of a _beautiful_ friendship.”

And just like that it begins.

From there, it was all downhill.

* * *

The talks first begin in the second semester of their first year, during their lunch breaks when the two boys press their wooden desks together in an attempt to create a world of their own amongst the madness of the classroom. It happens without thought, really, and more out of a certain bone deep _knowing_.

It begins amid the lunch rush, the buzz of classmates chattering about that movie or that show, or this book or that book, about everything and anything that could matter—expect the thing that matters the most.

No,

that conversation belongs only to the two of them, in their own little world parallel to the one that everyone else resides in.

And it is Matsukawa that first brings it up.

“So, do you think that those two, you know might be?”

Hanamaki pauses as he lifts his chopsticks up to his mouth, eyes focused on the sweet egg roll in its grip as he thinks.

“Maybe, but a lot of people have great chemistry with nothing to show for it. Especially close friends.”

The background buzz encloses their world then, cacophonic notes that weigh down the silence that hangs between them barely there, but ignored this early in their game of mutual intentional ignorance and deceit.

The talks first begin in the second semester of their first year, during their lunch breaks when the two boys press their wooden desks together in an attempt to create a world of their own amongst the madness of the classroom.

But they do not end there.

* * *

“They really could be though,” Matsukawa whispers, feigning sleep as he pretends to rest his head against Hanamaki’s, lips barely brushing against the shell of the twilight boy’s ear.

(He ignores the way that it burns like starfire on clear winter nights.)

Dark eyes slide to look at the duo—across the aisle from them on the bus and only one row up—perfectly in sight as Iwaizumi argues with Oikawa about the other’s pre-game habits.

They’re wrestling over Oikawa’s iPad, and from the glimpses that Hanamaki can get, it seems like their captain had been watching yet another video of their opponent’s past games.

(They’re in their second year now, the season’s just begun, and this is their first away game.)

“They fight more than they do anything though,” he replies, eyes slipping back to his phone screen, thumb flicking against the glass surface to scroll through songs.

Matsukawa shifts, eyes hooded ( _bedroom eyes, bedroom eyes_ ) as he continues to watch the captain and the vice-captain.

The moment lasts longer than even Hanamaki knows it to last, and somewhere in that moment, _something_ appears across Matsukawa Issei’s irises, but only for a moment.

Then it is gone.

“It’s their way of showing affection Makki, you know that,” the dark-haired boy eventually whispers, eyes closing for real now, head twisting to bury his face in the other’s hair.

(Starfire, it burns, it burns. Like acid, like unbearable summer sun, like friction of skin against the polished floor of the volleyball court, like the sting of his hand after spiking the ball.)

_Don’t touch it_ , the twilight boy tells himself, finally settling on a song, _don’t touch it, you know what they say about fire Takahiro_.

“Hmm?” Matsukawa hums, hand raised to adjust the earbud that Hanamaki had given him, “What song is this? It’s in English, isn’t it? Is it American?”

Subtly, almost absentmindedly, Hanamaki shakes his head, carefully not to disturb his own earbud or the other’s head, “No. He’s Australian actually.”

The other hums some more, the sound pleased and ( _sinful, devious, perfect_ ) sleepy.

“I like it, even if I don’t understand the words. You do though, don’t you? Since you’ve got relatives in New Zealand and stuff.”

His eyes cut to the outside, watching the green, green countryside pass them by as the sun sets, painting everything twilight.

“Yeah,” he whispers, “I do.”

_(A truth so loud you can't ignore_  
                                 My youth, my youth, my youth  
                                                                      My youth is yours. _)_

_They say, Takahiro, that if you play with fire_

_that you’ll get_

_burned._

* * *

“So, you think I’m right.”

“I _said_ , that I think you’re right, _but_ that I’m not sure.” He says, faded anger brimming in his veins and his hands twitching to spike and spike until he can’t feel anything anymore.

He says this a couple hours after their game ( _their loss, their fucking loss, their devastating, heartbreaking, mindfucking loss_ ) to Shiratorizawa.

Hanamaki spits, mouth curling into a snarl as he leans against the wall of the ramen place they’d come to.

Matsukawa on the other hand, looks visibly more calm, head tilted against the plaster surface with his eyes closed, fingers tapping slowly against his can of soda.

_The ice to his fire? The calm to his storm? The ying to—stop._

_Don’t Takahiro, the chances, the chances are—_

“Yeah, okay, and what makes you say that?”

_dismal at best._

Images flicker through his head: the distance between Iwaizumi and Oikawa as they walked out of the stadium, the way the two had been on the bus ride back, the way that they hadn’t said a word until after they’d had their ramen,

the way they’d gone home together.

“Everything and nothing, really,” he says instead, snarl softening, “it just…makes sense.”

A 1-2-3-4 pause, _tap-tap-tap-tap_ , Matsukawa’s fingers against the cold metal of his soda can.

“But?”

The twilight haired boy turns to look at the other.

_Bad choice, bad choice_ , he whispers to himself, heartrate spiking, a sickening sort of warmth threatening to wash out the rage, the _need_ , that sits in his blood.

( _Like it did before, the first day they met, when Matsukawa Issei was the most beautiful being that Hanamaki had ever seen, with a smile that could light up the fucking sky_.)

He jerks his head away, gaze burning on the ground as his face goes up in flames.

Thankfully Matsukawa’s eyes ( _his ocean black eyes that Hanamaki could drown in_ ) are still closed.

“But,” he’s proud of the way that his voice does not waver, “sometimes close friends are only that, close friends, no matter how much, you know.”

_Tap-tap-tap-tap_.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Dark eyes open, not that Hanamaki sees them, and they linger lazily on the twilight haired boy’s figure, that _something_ there again, brighter now, but still not fully formed.

When he blinks, the _something_ disappears.

“But sometimes, it’s more than that too.”

_Tap-tap-tap-tap_.

“You know.”

Hanamaki doesn’t respond, and the only sound that does is the sudden _clang_ of Matsukawa’s soda can as it hits the metal rim of a nearby trash can.

And somehow, it reminds the twilight boy of a bell, the kind that you ring at temples on New Year’s Day.

The kind that you ring to usher in a new era,

because change is inevitable.

* * *

“Makki?”

“Yeah Matsun?”

“You ever realize we talk a lot about Oikawa and Iwaizumi?”

His pencil pauses, hovering above the homework on the small table in Matsukawa’s room.

It’s the spring of their third ( _their final year together_ ) year at Aobajousai, days after their practice match with Karasuno.

( _The beginning of the end_.)

“Yeah? They’re our best source of entertainment really,” Hanamaki’s pencil resumes, scratching out answer after answer on the paper sheet, “What about it?”

“Do you think we’re projecting on them?”

The paper tears where his pencil had pressed down too hard.

“Projecting?”

His own voice sounds strange in his ears.

“Yeah, projecting.”

There is something strange, something _off_ , in the air. Like a secret has been spilled, its bottle tipped over by the careless finger of the existence known as Matsukawa Issei.

_Beautiful, unknowingly (does he really not know?) brutal, obliviously (but is he really?) cunning Matsukawa Issei_.

“Maybe,” the twilight boy laughs under his breath, ducking to smooth the rip in his homework. “We _do_ have quite the inferiority complex about that alien and monster duo, don’t we?”

_Don’t play with fire, don’t play with fire, don’t play with fire_.

“Yeah,” the dark-haired boy says ( _but the word is too slow, too conscious_ ), “we do.”

But then he laughs, makes a joke about how it’s a wonder how aliens haven’t come to collect Oikawa as their long lost son, or how it’s even stranger that Iwaizumi hasn’t kicked Godzilla’s ass yet.

The twilight boy laughs along, snark rolling off his tongue with ease without the interference of that so-called alien now.

Underneath it all though, he’s—

_Burning._

_Takahiro, you’re burning._

But he wonders, for the first time in a long time _,_

_if Matsukawa is maybe burning too._

* * *

“I still can’t believe him! ‘Thank you for these three years!’ God, we kept telling him to stop, ugh, he never listens,” Hanamaki complains, but his laughter gives him away.

Matsukawa shakes his head, smile tugging at the edges of his lips, “It’s Oikawa, what did you expect? He never listens to anyone, except Iwaizumi, but we know that’s only sometimes.”

The twilight boy rolls his eyes, hands thrown up in playful exasperation, “I know! But, ugh, the crying and the snot, and I swear I’m going to throw up the minute I get home. And don’t tell me you’re not doing the same Mastun, that’s both a) bullshit, and b) a betrayal to this relationship.”

They both laugh, the sound ringing clear and loud in the empty streets.

When their laughter fades, it becomes quiet, the sort of silence that’s filled with melancholy and yearning and the feeling of _one more, one more_.

Unsurprisingly, it’s not Hanamaki who breaks the silence.

“He’s not wrong though—the words come slowly at first—about the whole emotional thing you know?—then faster—Hell, I even feel like crying again when I think of it. _This_ was our last chance at kicking Shiratorizawa’s ass, _this_ was gonna be our year, _this_ was one hell of a match, and yeah, I wanted to win, but realistically? I’m glad, _I’m grateful_ , that we went up against Karasuno and that we gave it _everything_ , that we, to paraphrase Oikawa ‘hit it until it broke’.”

He pauses, sucking in a breath as Hanamaki stares at the ground as they walk, trying desperately to hold back the moisture gathering in the corner of his eyes as the other speaks.

“I’m glad that I came to Aobajousai. I’m glad that I joined this team. I’m glad that we had this huge dysfunctional family we called a volleyball club, and that no matter what _anyone says_ , that we’re going to fucking keep being that family for as long as Oikawa Tooru is alive.”

Another pause, a feeble attempt at swallowing back tears once, before the other laughs wholeheartedly, the sound a symphony that Hanamaki will love all his life.

“And I’m sure as hell grateful that you’ve been here all those three years Hanamaki Takahiro, so _thank you_ , thank you for these three years.”

The twilight haired boy’s head snaps up, eyes burning with that _something_ and tears, seeking out the boy he’s been in love with for these three years because in this moment nothing else matters but the words rolling off his tongue.

“ _Thank you_ , for these three years you fucking memelord dork—.”

It is the sight before him that stops him cold, that kills the affectionate insults in his throat, that robs him of the little laughs that had tinged his words.

It is the sudden _burn_ on his chest though, right over his heart that shatters his world.

Because that _something_ in the eyes of Matsukawa Issei, and that _something_ in the eyes of Hanamaki Takahiro are not _somethings_ at all.

They are a pair of constellations, a pair of _identical constellations_.

( _Shining silver._

_More beautiful than anything I could ever know._

_My dearest will have stars in their eyes._

_Glowing bright, ones that mirror mine._

_Upon their breast, atop a beating heart, stars that match mine._

_And I will know,_

_I am theirs._ )

And this is the end of yesterday.

 


End file.
